Wherein the investigators look for answers and find a new case along the way...

As the early morning sun peered through the drapes of the bedroom, a door opened and I was unceremoniously dragged from my cot. Bernice was wearing an expression of utmost disdain, and ordered me to get dressed and meet her outside. As she stormed from the bedroom, I looked over at Lex, who shook his head, smiled his roguish smile, and put on his jacket.

We descended the stairs into an empty parlor. I looked around for Bernice’s aunt, hoping to deliver a genuine, heartfelt apology, but she was not there – there was not a single Monroe in sight. As I walked from the house, I imagined Bernice’s relatives barricaded in a bedroom, vigorously quoting scripture and praying for their deliverance from evil. Despite my embarrassment, I chuckled.

I endured Bernice’s sermon on the dangers of drink and debauchery as I drove into town. As a breakfast was not provided by the Monroes, I found a local diner on Main Street, and the three of us ate quietly. I wanted to go to Miskatonic University and meet with Dr. Henry Armitage. I had a hunch that he might have met Ivy Morgan through one of her associates. Bernice, though still not pleased, agreed that I was probably right. Lex sipped his coffee quietly, his eyes moving back and forth between Bernice and me.

Bernice led us through the campus towards Orne Library, a newer building that held over 400,000 books and pamphlets. The large, granite structure looked cold and austere, but once inside it proved bright and less dreary. I walked to the front desk, introduced myself, and asked to see Dr. Armitage. The assistant director was a pleasant man who showed us to chairs and asked us to wait. After nearly fifteen minutes, the assistant descended the stairs with an elderly gentleman, who walked over to our seats and greeted us politely.

As I suspected, Dr. Armitage had met Ivy Morgan. She had arrived at the library during the summer, in the Company of two gentlemen; one of which possessed a letter of introduction written by Rudolph Pearson. The man, whose name escaped Dr. Armitage, brought a strange idol with him that he had found on his farm. Professor Pearson had told the man that a tome within the restricted section of the Orne Library might shed light on the idol’s origin.

Dr. Armitage showed the group to the restricted section, found the tome, answered some of their questions, and left. A number of hours later, Ms. Morgan came to Dr. Armitage to tell him that she and her associates were done reading the book. He did not see Ms. Morgan or her associates again.

All of the interviews I had conducted corroborated the information Ivy had written in her journal. But what she wrote in journal couldn’t be real. To believe what Ivy wrote was to believe in madness. I continued to arrive at the same conclusion – Ivy suffered a trauma, probably when she watched Pete Manusco gunned down in front of her, and never fully recovered. She was delusional – she began to fraternize with people she would not normally associate with, and paid the ultimate price.

But then there was the farm. There was evidence to support that a wild creature or creatures were at the scene of the crime. Bernice verified this in the hours immediately following the murders. Could Thomas Parkhill be telling the truth? If so, why did he light the entire hilltop on fire?

I chewed over the facts of the case like a well-done steak. It helped keep my mind off the turbulence as we bounced through the air towards Buffalo. Bernice was sitting quietly, eyes closed, muttering something under her breath. When the plane touched down, Lex looked back at us with a wry smile, impressed that we had avoided being sick.

It was late afternoon when we arrived at the home of Irene LeMond, a little one-story on the outskirts of the city. I walked up to the door and knocked – an overdressed, heavily rouged woman in her late fifties opened the door and beckoned us to enter. Unlike the unimpressive outside of the home, the inside was crowded with expensive furniture and knick-knacks. Mrs. LeMond wore a hodgepodge of expensive jewelry that neither matched nor looked particularly good on her.

Irene left us in the parlor, and returned quickly with a tray of tea and cookies. As we ate, she told us about her son, Paul’s, childhood. His father died when Paul was young, and Irene did her best to raise the boy. When he was seventeen, he suffered through a series of horrible nightmares, and was hospitalized with partial amnesia. It was during his stay at the hospital that Paul developed a friendship with Mr. Rodgers, a fellow patient. Mrs. LeMond confided that she felt Paul had changed during his stay at the hospital, and when he was released, he and Mr. Rodgers embarked upon a number of long, unexplained trips that kept Paul away from home for nearly eight years.

When Paul returned, he suffered another bout of amnesia, and was again hospitalized. After a brief stay in the institution, Paul was released from care and began to act normally again. However, he also began to show strange powers, most noticeably an ability to commune with spirits.

Paul’s special ability caught the eye of a New York City talent agent, Herb Whitefield, who signed Paul to a management contract and moved him to the Big Apple. Irene had only seen Paul three times since he moved to the city. During his most recent visit, Paul brought his girlfriend, Velma Peters, along to meet his mother. Shortly after the visit, Paul went missing. Irene does not trust Paul’s manager or Velma Peters, and fears they’re conspiring to get rid of her son and collect on his insurance.

I agreed to take the case. As busy as I was with the Morgan investigation, it was nothing short of insanity to turn down two thousand dollars. As we were preparing to leave, Irene provided us with the address of Paul’s apartment and Herb Whitefield’s office in New York City. She also handed me a recent photo and the diary Paul kept as a teenager. I told Mrs. LeMond that I’d keep in touch, and walked out into the night with Bernice and Lex.

Wherein the investigators get some much-needed information at Columbia University, and make their way to Arkham

The Greek philosopher Pythagoras said, “Strength of mind rests in sobriety – for this keeps your reason unclouded by passion.” My name is Ainsworth – Fred Ainsworth – and I don’t think Pythagoras would have felt that way if he was a private investigator…

I woke up early for what seemed the first time in years. The typical fogginess that greeted me most mornings was absent, and I found not having to piece together the events of the previous day unnerving. I got dressed, put the percolator on to boil, lit a Chesterfield, and began to thumb through Ivy Morgan’sjournal.

Ivy was a sharp dame. She seemed to know what she wanted, and definitely knew how to get it. So, why the sudden change of heart? Why stop fraternizing with the socially elite? Why give up the lifestyle that seemed to suit her so well? As I read through the journal, I guessed that Ivy must have suffered some serious trauma and began to come unhinged. The entries got weirder and weirder – like something out of a pulp. But Ivy never lost her voice – she never raved. She was articulate and lucid, which gave me the impression that she believed what she was writing.

But after meeting Lex Lashley and hearing his tale, I couldn’t help but bring myself to the conclusion that Ivy was more than a bit coo-coo. Lex’s account of his rendezvous with Ms. Morgan dovetailed uncomfortably with what I read in her journal. And what I read in the journal was not normal behavior for a lady of Ms. Morgan’s standing and upbringing.

A loud knock at the door told me that Bernice and Lex had arrived. Bernice, dressed demurely, hair in a severe bun, eyed me piously and sniffed the air as she entered the office. I guessed that she was searching for some sign of lingering drink. Lex, looking like a puffed-up Eddie Rickenbacker, gave me a roguish smile and a wink, and leaned against my desk.

I had a meeting with Rudolph Pearson at Columbia University within the hour. After that, I wanted Lex to fly us up to Arkham, so Bernice could show me the farm where Ivy and the others were murdered. We were walking out the door when the phone rang.

She introduced herself as Irene LeMond, and said that she was looking to hire a private investigator to find her missing son. She had found my number through an ad in the paper, and needed me to come up to Buffalo to discuss the case. When I told her that I was busy with another investigation, she offered me two thousand bucks if I could find her son. I told her I’d see her in Buffalo the following day.

Bernice, Lex, and I jumped in the car and headed to Columbia University. Pearson seemed like an affable chap – he was well spoken, as only a southern gentleman could be. He told us that he had been a colleague of Ivy’s grandfather, Lewis, and had met Ms. Morgan through an acquaintance. She and some associates had helped Pearson learn the whereabouts of a missing faculty member a few months prior, and as a gesture of appreciation, the professor had written one of the associates a letter of introduction to Dr. Henry Armitage, the head librarian at Miskatonic Unversity. A few weeks later, Ivy returned to discuss a book she had found while investigating a murder in Red Hook.

It was during these conversations, Pearson said, that Ivy had expressed an interest in the occult, and that she had claimed to see things that had shaken her perception of good and evil. So, when a colleague at Miskatonic University called a few weeks ago to ask if Pearson knew anyone that would be interested in investigating some alleged psychical activity on the school grounds, the professor naturally thought of Ivy. He admitted to introducing Ms. Morgan to Cuthbert Sorensen and his assistant, Thomas Parkhill, and that the three had agreed to cooperate in the investigation. When he saw in the paper that Ivy was murdered, Pearson felt a great deal of remorse for introducing Ivy to her would-be killer.

We took our leave of Professor Pearson at midday, and headed to Teterboro Airfield, on the outskirts of the city. I had never flown, and sipped at my hip flask to calm my nerves. Bernice seemed leery as well – although I think she was more concerned about dying alongside a carousing booze-hound, and ending up in Hell with me by mistake. Lex shot a wink our way as he climbed in the cockpit, told us to buckle up, and proceeded down the runway.

The best that could be said of the flight was that it was quick. I turned a few shades of green and vomited copiously into a burlap sack. Bernice, unable to handle the constant turbulence, lost her lunch as well. Lex seemed unfazed, and merely chuckled as the two of us wretched. We touched down at Arkham Airfield in the early evening, and were routed into a hanger. We were greeted by Stanley Harrington, a well-known pilot who Lex said shot down six German aircraft in the Great War. Stanley was gracious enough to lend us a car, and we drove to Bernice’s family farm.

An Arkham County sheriff was waiting at the house when we arrived. He introduced himself as Sheriff Bureau, approached Bernice and asked her where she had been. She gave it to the sheriff straight, telling him that she had gone to New York to find out more about Ivy Morgan, in hopes of making sense of her uncle and cousin’s murder. Sheriff Bureau did not seem impressed – he warned Bernice that they had the right man in custody, and that she shouldn’t interfere. He eyed me appraisingly and asked who I was. He didn’t believe me when I said that I was a family friend, and warned me to not stick my nose where it didn’t belong. He issued another general warning from the car as he drove from the farm.

Dinner with the Monroe’s was a somber affair. Bernice’s relatives were, if possible, more dour than she, and looked at Lex and me like we were about to start speaking in tongues. Only a small boy, no more than four years old, seemed excited to see strangers in the home. During dinner, Bernice pulled her aunt into the kitchen, and the two had a whispered argument. When she came out, Bernice told Lex and me that we were welcome to stay the night, and then ushered us out into the yard.

Bernice led us to the barn. She opened the door, walked inside, and exited moments later with three rifles and a lantern. She handed a rifle to both Lex and me, and told us to follow her. We walked for a time, careful to look around to ensure we weren’t followed. As darkness descended, it became nearly impossible to see. I trusted to Bernice’s familiarity with her surroundings to keep us on track, and after nearly an hour, we came to a halt.

By the light of the lantern, Bernice was able to find a spot in which clear footprints could be discerned. They were large, heavy, and like nothing I’d ever seen. Upon closer examination, I noticed that the surrounding trees had been clawed as well, leaving deep, livid scratches. On Bernice went, and along we followed – nearly every twenty feet there was another set of huge claw-like prints in the ground, and the nearby trees were torn up. As we reached the top of the hill, a number of burnt-out building shown in the feeble moonlight. I looked around for clues, but found nothing of particular interest. The local police and sheriffs had made a mess of the area, and any prints that might have been discernable were trampled.

Satisfied that I had visited the scene of the crime, Bernice led us back to the farm. I spent the majority of the walk back swigging from my hip flask, thankful for the dulling feeling in my brain. The house was dark when we arrived. Bernice walked us up to a bedroom, opened the door, and bade us goodnight. Lex was still taking his jacket off as I fell onto the cot.

Minutes, perhaps hours, had passed when I woke up suddenly, wet and warm. I looked down just as a little boy started screaming. He must have climbed onto my cot at some point during the night, and got frightened when I soiled myself. Bernice’s aunt stormed into the room, gazed horrified at my wet midsection, grabbed the child, and hurried away, loudly quoting Isaiah 28:7.

As my head hit the pillow, I knew that I would never again be a welcomed guest at the Monroe farm.

Wherein Fred Ainsworth and Bernice Monroe venture into the seedy underbelly of Harlem’s nightlife, and meet a potential ally

Al Capone once said, “When I sell liquor, it’s called bootlegging; when my patrons serve it on Lake Shore Drive, it’s called hospitality.” It is my experience that the hospitality business in Harlem is booming. My name’s Ainsworth – Fred Ainsworth – and I’m a private investigator.

As I came to my senses and the feeling of impending doom abated, I could see that Bernice was biting her tongue – a diatribe about the dangers of drink was fighting to unleash itself upon the world. Mercifully, she walked out of the bathroom and left me to pull myself together.

After dousing my face with cold water for a few moments, I walked back into the bedroom and collected my thoughts. Before I blacked out, I was reading Ivy’sjournal. It occurred to me that if I wanted to piece together the circumstances of Ms. Morgan’s ignominious end, I needed to go back to the beginning. And according to the journal, that meant I needed to visit the Blue Heaven Ballroom.

I scoured Ivy’s closet for something less matronly for Bernice to wear. No one was going to let her into one of Harlem’s hottest speakeasies looking like she just came from a relative’s sickbed. Despite multiple remonstrations and tut-tuts, Bernice took the dress I picked for her and pushed me out of the bedroom. I rummaged through the rest of the house and managed to find an old but suitable tuxedo. Within the hour, the two of us made a serviceable pair of socialites. We jumped into my car and drove to the club.

Even on a Wednesday, the line outside of Blue Heaven stretched nearly a block. Absent were the celebrities and VIP’s one encountered on a Friday or Saturday night, but plenty of New York’s cultural elite, gangsters, and out-of-towners had nothing better to do with their evenings. Bernice and I stepped into the queue, and slowly entered the club.

I could tell from the expression on Bernice’s face that she might as well have stepped into the Second Circle of Hell. Between the frenzied jazz music, free-flowing booze, and morally ambiguous clientele, I thought that she might slip into a fit. But to her credit, Bernice steadied herself and took a spot next to me at the bar.

I spent the next few hours talking to bartenders, doormen, waiters, and cigarette girls. I got very little cooperation when it came to Pete Manusco’s murder – most of the staff claimed to not be working the night the accountant was shot. However, they all recognized Ivy when I showed them her picture. It seems Ms. Morgan was quite popular with the young dilettantes that frequented the club. Once I handed over a few clams to the bartender, he pointed out a group of them sitting at a nearby table. I bought a bottle of over-priced bourbon, signaled to Bernice, and walked over to the group.

We sat in a pair of chairs that were recently occupied by a couple that had gone to dance. A number of tuxedoed dilettantes were participating in a spirited conversation with a tall, rugged, and handsome man.

“I say, fly-boy,” the dilettante began, “if you want me to introduce you to my father, you best not scare Trixie with your stunt-flying again!”

The handsome man smiled wryly. “With all due respect, Charles, you chartered my plane because you thought that a little excitement might be exactly what your lady-friend needed to, as you said, loosen up.”

The group laughed heartily, but stopped short when they realized that there were newcomers at the table. I introduced myself and Bernice, and uncapped the bottle of bourbon. It took very little effort to get the young men talking about Ivy – they were already well-lubricated when I started pouring drinks. Many of them had visited the Church of Cana – mostly because they thought it would endear them to Ms. Morgan. They didn’t necessarily believe that the end of the world was coming, but they were prepared to believe anything if it meant that they could spend a blissful night with Ivy. Over the last few months, however, Ivy had stopped holding services, and many of the socialites stopped seeing her socially.

Everything was going swimmingly until one of the dilettantes decided to rest his hand upon Bernice’s backside. Shocked and horrified, she picked up a glass from the table, and threw the brown liquor in his face. The group erupted in fits of raucous laughter while Bernice stormed from the table. I politely excused myself and chased after her.

I caught Bernice halfway down the stairs. She began to denounce drink and debauchery, but was interrupted by a call from behind. It was the handsome pilot that was sitting with us at the table. He introduced himself as Lex Lashley, and confided that he had run afoul Ms. Morgan at the Church of Cana. He claimed that he had gone to the church in search of a benefactor to fund his next treasure-hunting expedition, and that he and Ivy had hit it off. After an evening of lively conversation and copious amounts of bootlegged scotch, Lashley found himself in a Harlem alley, with scratches all over his back and a serious case of the sniffles.

My thoughts turned to the journal in Ivy’s bedroom. There, I came across some troubling entries about unnamed socialites, medical-grade ether, hotel bathtubs, and a lot of ice. It sounded to me like Lex Lashley was a victim of Ivy’s peculiar sexual proclivities, and I didn’t really have the heart to tell him.

Maybe I felt sorry for the guy. Maybe I realized that it was easier to fly to Massachusetts than drive. Whatever the case, I offered Lex Lashley five dollars a day to procure his services, and he agreed. As I walked out of the club and into the night, I silently doubted that anything good would come from involving Bernice and Lex in my investigation.

Wherein a New York private investigator and an Arkham County nurse discover the sordid details of Ivy Morgan's final days

Of alcohol, Oscar Wilde said, “After the first glass, you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see things as they are not. Finally, you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world.” Truer, more unfortunate words have never been spoken. My name is Ainsworth – Fred Ainsworth – and I’m a private investigator.

The day had started off with a bang – a straight-laced New Englander by the name of Bernice Monroe had interrupted my hangover, and provided some useful insight into my investigation of Ivy Morgan’s murder. I rewarded Ms. Monroe’s tenacity by asking her to assist in the investigation, and to my surprise, she agreed.

I had struck out at Columbia University the previous morning, so I gave Bernice the task of landing a meeting with Rudolph Pearson. She got on the phone and had the operator connect her to the university. Shortly thereafter, she was having a long woman-to-woman chat with Pearson’s secretary, and setting up a meeting with Professor Pearson for the following morning.

There was something about Bernice that intrigued me. Beneath her demure facade burned a stony determination that was equally compelling and powerful. I could tell that she was a no-nonsense lady, and that she rarely let the word no intimidate her. I silently applauded my brilliance in bringing Bernice into the fold, as she hung up the phone and gave me a curt nod.

The morning was growing stale, and my inaction was allowing the hangover to take hold again. I called one of my contacts at the Times, and made an appointment to look through the archives that afternoon. After that, I planned to head to Ivy’s Morningside Heights home to look for clues. Bernice and I ate a quick lunch and then headed downtown.

The trip to the Times proved useful. With Bernice’s help, I was able to find Ivy’s Op-Eds peppered throughout the 1926 editions. I had to hand it to Ms. Morgan – she came off as a pretty smooth dame who knew her audience. Preaching a hedonistic lifestyle to a bunch of young socialites might have been as easy as introducing a 16-year-old ingenue to Charlie Chaplin, but Ivy sold her vision with well-reasoned arguments, and never in a lewd or lascivious manner. I’m sure she stirred up the bluenoses something fierce, but that didn’t make her a criminal.

Ivy’s house had the picked-over look of a flea market. Everything was slightly out of place – handled, no doubt, by disinterested NYPD detectives helping their Arkham counterparts determine a motive for Ms. Morgan’s murder. Roughly opened mail lay strewn about a small table near the Davenport. Crystal decanters, at one time filled with gin, bourbon, and rye, stood un-stoppered and empty – presumably taken back to the precinct as evidence.

Bernice followed me up the stairs and into what I assumed to be Ivy’s bedroom. This appeared to be the most lived-in area of the house. The closet door was ajar – I could tell by the look of mingled awe and distaste on Bernice’s face that she had never seen that many dresses outside of a department store. As she rummaged through Ivy’s wardrobe, I looked around the room – another set of empty decanters littered a small table in the corner. An intricately carved vanity was nestled in an alcove by the window. I noticed that one of the nightstands next to Ivy’s bed was facing the wrong way – clearly none of the detectives took the time to look around, because the table had been turned so the drawers were facing the wall. Intrigued, I walked over, turned the table around, and pulled open the top drawer. Inside, I found three leather-bound books, a typed manuscript, a crystal, and several pieces of stiff fabric, which appeared to have been written on in a dark red ink. I called Bernice over to the bedside and showed her what I found. She gave the items a quick glance and returned to the closet. I opened the biggest of the leather-bound books, and began to read.

Ivy had been keeping a journal since June. She had been a very busy girl – her entries referenced a murder at the Blue Heaven Ballroom, power outages in the Gashouse District, a series of disappearances in Red Hook, and adventures in Arkham county. She also outlined a number of rendezvous with unnamed socialites, which involved medical-grade ether, hotel bathtubs, and a lot of ice. More disturbing than all of these entries, however, was Ivy’s references to Father Washington’s Bible. The journal cross-referenced the typed manuscript I found in the drawer. I reached into the desk, picked up the manuscript, and started to skim the pages.

I couldn’t tell if a minute or a day had passed. I woke up on my back in Ivy’s bathroom – Bernice standing over me with a bloody rag in her hand. She told me that I ran past her into the bathroom and began retching. At first, she thought that my many debaucheries had caught up to me. But after a few moments she heard a crash, and ran in to the bathroom to find me unconscious on the floor with a gash in my forehead (Bernice reckons that I must have slipped in some of my vomit and struck my head on the sink). She found some bandages in a closet and quickly administered first aid.

I sat up and ran my hand over the bandage that Bernice had placed on my head, and thought about what happened. I didn’t want to spook Ms. Monroe, but for the first time in nearly ten years I was as sober as a judge, and didn’t believe for one moment that alcohol had anything to do with my episode in the bathroom. The harsh realization that something in the typed manuscript had unnerved me to the point of sickness washed over me in torrents of icy coldness. I quietly lamented my decision to involve Bernice in this investigation, and tried to master my senses and decide what to do next.

Wherein a private eye is hired to investigate the death of a mythos-chasing flapper

New York – the city that never sleeps. If you believe Walt Whitman, there’s no place like it. But if you ask me, something’s gone rotten in the Big Apple, and the whole damned place is decaying from the inside out. My name’s Ainsworth – Fred Ainsworth – and I’m a private investigator.

The papers had been thick with the murders all week. Ivy Morgan, a Sugar Hill snake-oil salesman, was found dead on a farm in rural Massachusetts, along with a few college professors and some unlucky farmers. The coppers had a suspect – a down-on-his-luck, deformed drifter named Thomas Parkhill, who the local hacks lost no time dubbing Tin-Mask Tommy. The bulls believed Morgan and her accomplices headed up to Arkham to steal a priceless statue, and in the process Parkhill double-crossed them. All-in-all, it seemed pretty neat – perhaps too neat. And looking back, had I known what I know now, I would have never agreed to find out the truth.

The morning had hit me like a Gene Tunney upper-cut, and I needed some of the hair of the dog that bit me. I had just managed to shake out the cobwebs, when I heard a knock. I opened the office door and was greeted by a haughty-looking older gentleman, who introduced himself as Lewis Morgan. He said that he was the grandfather of Ivy Morgan, and that he wanted to know more about the events leading up to her death. He told me a sob-story about not really knowing his granddaughter, and how that guilt was eating him up inside. He wanted to know how she became associated with the cast of characters who ended up dead alongside her at the barn in Massachusetts. He knew nothing about Cuthbert Sorensen, Thomas Parkhill, or the two farmers, but did mention that Ivy had recently met with a former colleague of his, Rudolph Pearson. Pearson was a professor of Medieval Literature at Columbia University, and had told Lewis that he wanted him to broker a meeting between he and Ivy. The old man told me he’d pay me ten dollars a day plus expenses, and then handed over the keys to Ivy’s Morningside Heights house. He also gave me a business card to a place called the Church of Cana – it seemed that Ivy had a very hedonistic viewpoint on life (She’d even written a few editorials in the Times that caused a bit of an uproar), and had rented out an old Baptist church in Sugar Hill to preach the end of the world. He told me that he’d appreciate frequent updates, and then walked out the door.

I poured another glass of the hair of the dog, and contemplated everything Lewis Morgan had told me. The most logical place to start was Columbia University. Within the hour, I had jumped in the car and headed downtown, regretting with each passing block that I hadn’t asked the old man in which building I could find Professor Pearson. Thankfully, amidst the sea of tweed and privilege, I found a helpful coed who pointed me towards Philosophy Hall. Once there, I headed up to Pearson’s office and encountered his secretary, who said that the professor’s schedule was booked solid until the following week. I tried to sweet-talk my way into his appointment book, but the dizzy dame wouldn’t have any of it.

Despite striking out at Columbia, it all seemed pretty cut-and-dry to me – interview the professor, search the dead flapper’s house, explore the archives at the Times. If Ivy was up to no good, I was bound to find something to go on. If I played my cards right, I could have the case sewn up by the end of the week. But by the time I got back to the office, the cobwebs had returned, and the hair of the dog wasn’t doing the trick. I wretched in the sink for a while, pulled out the bed, and passed out cold. Ms. Morgan could wait until tomorrow.

The banging sounded like a jackhammer on 42nd and Broadway. I couldn’t figure out why someone was pounding on my office door before the crack of noon, but pounding they were.

I put on some clothes, took a swig from the bottle on the nightstand, folded up the Murphy bed, and stumbled to the door and opened it.

She looked like someone’s maternal aunt. There was a plainness to her that made me think of the State of Nebraska. Her face was hard. She had her hair pulled back in to a bun, and wore a simple dress than did nothing to accentuate her slightly mannish frame. She had a small bag tucked tightly under her arm, and a fierce, determined look in her eyes.

“Mr. Ainsworth,” she said, “My name is Bernice Monroe. Lewis Morgan told me that he hired you to investigate his granddaughter’s murder. My uncle, Ben Monroe, and cousin, Luther Monroe, were also victims of that alleged crime. I have some information that may be of use to you.”

I ushered her into my office and offered her a chair. Bernice sat down and launched into her story – she was a nurse at Congressional Hospital in Kingsport, Massachusetts, and had encountered Ivy Morgan there a few months ago. Ms. Morgan and two male acquaintances had come to visit Father Dario Alighiero, who had been horribly burned the day before in a fire at St. Francis Catholic Church. Bernice alluded to several strange occurrences that seemed to follow Ivy into town – the fire at the church, a tornado that snatched several locals into the sky, and the grisly murder of a Kingsport newshawk by the name of Julian St Jerome. She also recalled (with a barely perceptible tone of bitterness) that one of the local police officers followed Ms. Morgan around like a love-sick puppy.

Bernice was at work when the bodies of her uncle, cousin, and the others were brought in to the hospital. She was able to identify her uncle easily, and although he was burnt beyond recognition, felt certain that one of the corpses was her cousin, Luther. In the days that followed, the police were convinced that the lone survivor, Thomas Parkhill, was the murderer – despite his claims that he and his associates, along with Bernice’s uncle and cousin, were attacked by wild animals.

Bernice said that she felt the police were more interested in closing the case than investigating it. She saw her uncle’s corpse in the morgue – Ben wasn’t burned in the barn like everyone else. He was found in the woods with a number of gruesome wounds that did not appear to be caused by gunfire. She was concerned that if Parkhill was telling the truth, there was still a pack of wild animals loose in the woods, and her family was at risk. In desperation, she conducted her own search of the farm under the cover of darkness. While scouring the surrounding woods for clues, she found a series of large, claw-like footprints that the police either seemed to have missed, or did not think were important.

That sealed the deal for Bernice – if the police weren’t going to do everything in their power to bring Ben and Luther’s killer to justice, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. She remembered meeting Lewis Morgan when he came to Kingsport to identify Ivy’s remains, and thought he seemed like a good man. Perhaps he could shed some light on why his granddaughter, who seemed an intelligent and well-bred woman, would end up associated with such nefarious characters. Perhaps he’d be able to tell Bernice something that would help her piece together the gruesome puzzle that had become her uncle and cousin’s deaths. So, determined to find out the truth, she bought a ticket, hopped on a bus, and came to New York.

When she had finished her story, I looked across the desk at her – at the stony determination etched onto her hard face – and I could tell that she wouldn’t leave New York until she had the answers she was looking for. I don’t know why I did it – maybe because I understood how it felt to be hungry for the truth – maybe her steely resolve impressed me – maybe she scared the hell out of me. Whatever the case, I asked her if she wanted to assist in my investigation. She agreed.

“What did you do to that man?!” the man yells again, as he quickly makes up the distance between him and the investigators.

Ivy attempts to explain that there’s been a terrible accident, but the man will hear nothing of it.

“Explain it to the sheriff,” the man bellows as he turns back to his wagon.

“Settle down, pa!” interjects a young man as he approaches the investigators. “You have to excuse my dad,” he says, “He’s a cantankerous, old bastard.”

Looking at Ivy, he continues. “My name is Luther Monroe, and this charming old coot is my father, Benjamin. Now, what happened here?”

Cuthbert and Ivy take turns explaining what has transpired over the last hour. Luther nods occasionally, as his father broods behind him. Thomas begins to show Luther the strange claw-like prints in the mud, and Ben jumps forward.

“Those tracks lead off towards the tree-line,” says Ben matter-of-factly. “Did any of you bother to follow ’em?”

Before anyone can answer, Ben wanders off, searching the ground for more tracks. The others follow quickly, shining their flashlights to assist in the search. After a walk of nearly a hundred yards, the group stops at muddy pool of water and blood. In it, the corpse of a man in his fifties stares blankly up at the thunderclouds. His tweed jacket is torn, revealing a massive gaping wound at his side. Reaching down, Thomas takes the wallet from the man’s pocket, identifying him as Aaron Chase of Arkham, Massachusetts. Ivy kneels down to get a closer look at the body and notices two things – a golden key (hanging off a necklace around Chase’s neck) and a ruined notebook (the binding has come undone, leaving only the title page intact).

Once they were confident that they had searched the immediate area completely, the investigators and the farmers start to walk back to the truck. Out of the corner of his eye, Cuthbert notices a dark figure lurking in the tree line. He points its location out to the group, who are able to discern the shape amongst the trees. Startled, the group quickens their pace and hastens back to the vehicles.

Determined to find a town back along the road where they can spend the evening, the investigator pack up Cuthbert’s truck and turn back towards the main road. After about three hundred yards, Thomas hits the brakes – a mudslide has blocked the truck’s progress. Getting out of the car, Thomas can see several large trees blocking the road, as well as a heavy flow of mud and water crossing their path that could easily sweep their truck or them away if they attempted to traverse. Crestfallen, Thomas returns to the truck, turns around, and heads back to the bridge.

As the truck returns to the scene of the accident, a flash of lighting illuminates the area. Thomas sees another dark figure lurking in the tree line. He alerts Cuthbert, who exits the vehicle and walks to the cargo hold of the truck to tell Ivy. As another bolt of lightning lights the evening sky, they are able to make out the hulking shape in the distance.

With a palpable feeling of isolation, the investigators decide to stay in the truck and keep watch – weapons at the ready. Thomas, sitting in the driver’s seat, opens the window and attempts to fire a few rounds at the dark figure, but no shot finds its mark. As the night wears on, the figure disappears and reappears in the tree line, observed briefly by the investigators in the glow of the frequent lightning strikes.

As dawn approaches, the sky lightens perceptibly while the torrential downpour continues with renewed force. The dark figure can be seen again amongst the shadows of the tree line. Stepping out of the truck, Thomas can see that the vehicle has sunk into the mud overnight and cannot be moved. Luther suggests that the group move to higher ground. Ben recalls an old, abandoned farm near the top of a nearby hill – getting there will require them to walk into the path of the dark figure that has kept watch on them all night. With no better alternative, the investigators agree to head to the farm. The group arms themselves and makes for the tree line…and the dark figure within.

As the group approaches the tree line, the figure retreats. The investigators can see it amongst the shadows, and when he has a clear shot, Thomas raises his rifle and fires. The figure staggers back, but does not fall. From up in the trees, two creatures drop to the ground and attack.

They are large, black-skinned, and horrific. Gaping maws of razor-sharp teeth bite at the air. Long, sinewy arms grab at the investigators. Spiny tentacles shoot to and fro, looking to connect with a victim. Armed with shotguns, rifles, and handguns, the investigators and farmers blast their way through the creatures, sustaining minor injuries in fight. They apply whatever first aid they can, and continue to follow Ben up the hill.

After nearly a half-hour’s march, the group can see a clearing up ahead. As they approach, more creatures drop from the trees and attack. The fight is furious – the investigators are able to hold their own, and the deadly-accurate rifle of Luther Monroe continues to drop foes left and right. But more and more creatures join the fray – maws snapping, tentacles flailing. Thomas is critically injured by one of the creatures and falls to one knee. Ivy sustains a serious injury. Ben Monroe, surrounded by two of the creatures, is gored by a tentacle and crumbles to the ground, dead. Cuthbert and Luther avenge their fallen comrade and dispatch the remaining creatures. The fight ended, Ivy, Cuthbert, and Luther apply what first aid they can, and the remaining group makes for the clearing.

As they come upon the remains of an abandoned farm, a low hum can be heard above the din. A loud, electric pop emanates from a decrepit barn at the center of the clearing. The investigators’ eyes scan the area for more of the black creatures; several are guarding the barn, several more are in the trees. Thomas, bleeding and hobbled in the last attack, drops to one knee and steadies himself, and tells the other investigators that he will cover their progress from here. The others leave the cover of the tree line and walk out into the clearing.

Luther opens fire on the creatures in the trees, backed up by Thomas. Ivy and Cuthbert make up the distance quickly, firing their weapons at the black figures guarding the barn. The low, electrical hum grows louder as they approach the rickety structure. They make quick work of the remaining creatures and stand in front of the barn doors, an eerie light emanating from within.

Luther kicks the doors inward. To the right, a large machine, shaped like a many-headed beast, hums and pops. A window to an alien landscape opens before the investigators’ eyes, and another of the hideous, black creatures walks through. Running around the machine, Cuthbert looks for a way to turn it off. Ivy and Luther open fire on the creature.

With sharp eyes, Cuthbert is able to find what appears to be a keyhole at the back of the machine. He yells to Ivy to throw him the key. Snatching it from the air, he attempts to insert the key into the machine, but is thrown back with a vicious electrical shock. The recently-summoned beast lashes out at Luther Monroe and knocks him unconscious. Ivy fires at the creature, but her twenty-five caliber handgun seems to do minimal damage.

Slightly charred, but still alive, Cuthbert lunges forward again, thrusting the key into the back of the beast. This time, the key finds its mark and falls into place. The machine stops humming. Coming around the machine to face Cuthbert, the creature shoots out a tentacle that finds its mark. Blood sprays the wall as Cuthbert’s throat is punctured and he falls to the ground.

The creature turns to Ivy, who continues to fire her gun in vain. A tentacle hits her hard, knocking her back against one of the barn’s support beams. Knowing that the end is near, Ivy summons her remaining power, grabs the support beam, and casts a spell that she learned studying Father Washington’s Bible.

The support beam Ivy is holding begins to disintegrate, as if decades of rotting have occurred in an instant. The barn roof, already decrepit and in ill repair, creaks for a moment. From a distance, Thomas looks on in horror as the barn collapses. A cloud of dust and debris obscures the scene for a moment, and Thomas begins to crawl towards the fallen structure. As he slowly approaches, something begins to free itself from the wreckage. Large, black, and menacing, the creature emerges from the debris. Lifting himself up, Thomas steadies his weapon, aims, and fires. The black figure falls to the ground and all is silent.

After what seems like an eternity, Thomas regains his senses and notices that the rain has stopped. Looking up to the sky, he can see slivers of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover. Using his rifle as a walking stick, Thomas makes his way down the hill and back to the truck slowly. As he gets to the truck, he hears a voice from a distance.

“Are you OK over there? What’s happened?”

Looking across the bridge, Thomas sees a local law enforcement officer.

“There’s been an accident,” Thomas begins, “The bridge is out, and a mudslide has blocked the way back.”

“Stay where you are,” says the officer, “I’ll be back with someone to get you out shortly.”

As the officer leaves, Thomas walks to the back of the truck. He grabs two large containers of gasoline and starts to walk back to the abandoned farm.

“It’s the only way to make sure they’re all dead,” he thinks to himself.

Wherein new alliances are forged and new adventures begin

Ivy Morgan and Cuthbert Sorensen have been invited by Professor Rudolph Pearson to his office at Columbia University at 10:00am. Pearson, who has been asked to be on the lookout for able-bodied parapsychologists or other experts in the occult, has a business proposal to discuss with the investigators, and feels that Ms. Morgan and Dr. Sorensen would benefit from an introduction.

Cuthbert and his assistant, Mr. Thomas Parkhill, are sitting in the outer office when Ivy arrives. The three introduce themselves and make small talk until Pearson opens his door and invites them in to his inner office.

Professor Pearson has been contacted by his friend, Mars Bickle, a parapsychologist based in Arkham. Bickle was offered a research job by Miskatonic University that he is unable to accept, and recommended Dr. Sorensen, whom he is acquainted professionally, as a possible replacement. Pearson explains that the job is of the “observe and report” variety, and could take up to a month to complete. He feels that Sorensen, who employs the most up-to-date film and sound-recording equipment, could utilize a person with Ivy’s brains, charm, and experience with “things that go bump in the night,” most effectively. Cuthbert and Ivy agree to the partnership, and are advised to meet Harvey Wainscott, Miskatonic University President, at 11:00am the following morning.

Ivy, Cuthbert, and Thomas leave Pearson’s office and head to their vehicles. Ivy suggests that they get lunch before making the drive to Arkham. The three investigators enjoy lunch at the Empire Room at the Waldorf Astoria. While eating, Ivy notices something strange about Mr. Parkhill – he seems to be wearing a partial mask over half of his face. Cuthbert notices it as well. Both are aware of the prosthetic tin-masks that veterans of the Great War wear to hide disfiguring injuries to their faces, and refrain from making it a topic of discussion during the meal.

As they leave the Waldorf Astoria, Cuthbert offers to pick Ivy up at her home so they can drive to Arkham together. Ivy refuses the accommodation, stating that she does not know Cuthbert or Thomas, and would prefer to drive herself. She suggests that they meet at the Tilden Arms Hotel in Arkham later in the evening, and drives back to her Morningside Heights home to pack. Cuthbert and Thomas get in their truck and begin the drive to Arkham.

The drive is uneventful. As they pass Boston, however, the weather begins to turn. The rain is heavy, and as they near the Aylesbury pike, it is coming down in sheets. Much to their chagrin, Cuthbert and Thomas find the road to Arkham closed, and are forced to continue onward, looking for an alternate route. The drive down the dirt road is difficult – there is no light (expect the frequent lighting strikes that momentarily expose their isolated surroundings) and the rain is making visibility difficult.

As Thomas is attempting to navigate the dark road, a sudden burst of lighting brings the scenes of a recent accident into sharp relief. With only a moment to react, Thomas is able to avoid the wreckage and steer the truck into a drainage ditch, where it rests with its front tire dangling off the edge of a steep cliff. He and Cuthbert jump out of the truck and grab some rope from the cargo hold. Quickly attaching one end of the rope to the bumper and another to a nearby tree, the two men are able to slowly back the truck away from the cliff without incident. Entering the cargo hold, they notice that several pieces of equipment have become dislodged, and a camera has sustained heavy damage.

When they’ve assessed the damage in the cargo hold, Thomas and Cuthbert grab some flashlights, exit the vehicle and look up at the road. A truck appears to have run into a covered bridge. The two investigators are about to walk up the slope to survey the scene, when they see a pair of headlights quickly approaching. The area is briefly exposed in another burst of lightning, and a Daimler Double-Six slams into the back of the wrecked truck.

Running up, Thomas and Cuthbert see the door of the Daimler open. A young woman exits the vehicle, holding her hand to her forehead. Turning to face them, Ivy Morgan swears. She looks at the damage to her vehicle (the front end of the Daimler is wedged under the truck, which has become further wedged into the covered bridge), and swears again. Catching her bearings, she notices Cuthbert and Thomas and asks what has happened.

The three carefully approach the wreckage of the truck – Thomas walks to the passenger-side door while Cuthbert walks up on the driver’s side. Opening the driver’s door, Cuthbert and Ivy can see a body slumped over the steering wheel. On closer observation, they notice a shard of glass from the windshield jutting from the driver’s neck. Copious amounts of blood and the lack of a pulse tell Ivy that the driver is dead. Pulling the body from the car and searching its belongings, Cuthbert finds the driver’s wallet and identifies him as Samuel Falk, of Arkham, Massachusetts.

Thomas opens the passenger door and finds the seat empty. Opening the glove compartment, he finds a few maps, but nothing of real interest. As he shines his flashlight at the ground, Thomas notices footprints in the mud. Following them around the back of the truck, he notices that they are joined by what appear to be claw marks, as well as ruts in the ground that imply something heavy being pulled on the ground. Looking in to the cargo hold of the truck, Thomas sees fresh scratches in the floor and a quarter-sized hole in the roof. The edges of the hole appear burnt.

The investigators reconvene at the cargo hold and look at the surrounding tracks. Cuthbert notices something else on the ground – a pile of bound papers. They appear waterlogged and unreadable. However, under the shelter of the cargo hold, he is able to find a legible page. In it, he reads of Salai, a possible devotee or pupil of Leonardo (da Vinci?), whose lack of notoriety in the shadow of his master had driven him to do dark things. Cuthbert calls out to the other investigators and they begin to look around for more papers. Again, most pages have been destroyed by the storm, but severalmorereadable pages are found.

As they return to the cargo hold to put the legible pages together, a voice interrupts them from behind.

“What have you done to that man?” yells a short man over the clamor, as he climbs down from his horse-drawn wagon.

They had arrived in Jonas’ Packard early in the morning, and covered the car with brush to avoid it being spotted from the road. They looked down on the lake most of the day, spying out the area they believed the ritual would take place. At ten o’clock, they cautiously made their way down to the shore and struck a path to the ritual clearing.

Under the new moon, the darkness was complete. The investigators took their places and waited. After a while, they could hear movement around them. Into the clearing they came – a half-dozen robed figures with bushels of dead tree branches, firewood, and lumber in hand. Within minutes, a ten-foot high pile was erected in the middle of the clearing, and the wood was saturated in kerosene. Some time later, two more figures emerged into the clearing, both tall and robed – one, wearing a ritual headdress. The two figures plunged torches into the pile of wood, and the clearing exploded into light.